


Saving Jean Kirschtein (from himself)

by Loreyulia



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Armin is the therapist we all need, Burning, Character Death, Cutting, Depression, Eating Disorders, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, dealing with the death of a friend, learning healthy ways to cope
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-23
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-08-10 13:53:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7847635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loreyulia/pseuds/Loreyulia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a cold, January morning Trost High learns of the sudden and untimely death of Marco Bodt. The nicest, happiest class mate any one could ask for-- the kind of kid who would hang out with the school's delinquent outcast, Jean Kirschtein. The two had been best friends, after all, much to the confusion of every teacher and student attending Trost High. When Armin Arlert, smartest kid in his AP English class, decides to keep tabs on Jean after the death of his best friend, he finds out he signed up for more than he originally thought. Through the course of a strange and budding friendship, Armin discovers a dark past and present that Jean has lived through. Cutting, Burning. Starving himself or making himself puke, there seems to be no end to the punishments Jean inflicts upon himself. The question, is why? Will Armin's friendship be enough to save Jean Kirschtein from himself?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Olive Branch, Extended

Author's Note: I really have no idea why I started writing this. I guess my mood just called for angst, with an unsuspecting friend to help through the tough times. So, enter Armin Arlert the perceptive sweetie to help out a lost, majorly depressed, and suicidal Jean Kirschtein. This is a highschool AU, some thing I don't really write about, so found it fun to do for now. This story will contain major mentions of self harm, eating disorders, suicidal thoughts and actions, and depression. I personally have gone through most of these things, quietly and alone so this is sort of a therapy fanfiction, where I can vent my own problems and pretend they can be fixed by a blond angel like Armin. This story, however, will not end up with Jean and Armin falling in love or anything-- they merely become very close friends. If any of the aforementioned topics trigger you, or just aren't your cup of tea, then kindly back out of the story and maybe go read something else I have posted more suited for you :) But if you stick around, maybe leave a few words as to what you like/dislike about the story (though kindly tell me what you don't like, being rude is not tolerated by me in the slightest) then I would greatly appreciate it. Any way, on with the (admittedly short) first chapter!

About halfway through my Senior year, the death of Marco Bodt comes as a complete and utter shock to Trost High one blistery cold, January morning. The assembly, packed to the brim with students, has erupted with disorganized chatter. I look around the crowded gymnasium, seeking out the one lone figure I know will be most deeply affected by Marco's passing. 

Sure enough, a few rows ahead of me and secluded off to the left side so far away I can barely see him, is Jean Kirschtein. The Senior boy's sandy hair is an untidy mess on top, the dark contrast of his under cut highlighting the disarray in sharp contrast. He has a long, angular face that almost always has a scowl deepening his harsh features. At present Jean's face is turned away from the front of the assembly, his head hung low; seemingly content to stare down at his feet. 

The Principal goes on to reveal to us the cause of Marco's death. Apparently, he had been hit by a drunk driver in a remote area up by Jinae. With the heavy snow storm that night, Marco's body had not been discovered until late the next day. He died of blood loss and hypothermia-- all alone, in the cold.  
I tune out the rest of the speech about the shining role model Marco Bodt was, a sick feeling churning in my guts. My attention slowly turns to Jean. His shoulders are shaking uncontrollably. I didn't have to see his face to know that he was crying. 

Marco was a kind, honest guy that almost everyone in school liked. He always had a smile and helpful advice to give to anyone who needed it. It was acutely evident how deeply he affected us all with his kindness, the muffled sobs and red rimmed eyes around me a grim reminder of this fact.  
So, if it was this hard on all of them, I knew that Jean was beyond devastation. Marco had been his only friend from what I knew-- a strange pair that the rumor mill around campus never got tired of gossiping over. 

The Principal finally brings his speech to a close, and we are dismissed to start class as scheduled. I look to Jean one last time-- his pale face blank and wiped clear of any emotion, save for the blotchy residue his tears left behind.  
A heavy feeling settles upon my shoulders. I can not quite put my finger on why, but for some reason unknown to me, I know I will need to keep an eye on Jean from here on out.  
_______________________________________ 

Jean and I have one class together, and that is AP English. 

Over the course of a month, I have begun a habit of checking him over at least once a day to assess how he is holding up since the death of his best friend. Jean sits far in the back of the class in a seat as removed from the other students as he can possibly get. He has a habit of slouching deep into his seat, avoiding eye contact, and any and all attempts at conversation. Over all, not new behavior coming from Trost High's self proclaimed lone wolf. However, where before Jean would treat any sign of companionship with open hostility, and a tongue harsh enough to cut your pride deep; now, he simply stays silent and ignores every attempt to speak with his classmates. 

He has withdrawn even further into his solitary tendencies, and that triggers an uneasiness inside of me. Eren scoffs at me, tells me that I am worrying too much over that horse faced bastard and that I should forget about him. But it was easier said than done, especially when I was faced with his stoney facade each day. And it is a facade.  
Some how, deep in the very marrow of my bones, I know there is some thing wrong with Jean Kirschtein. 

How can there not be? Not when his sharp eyes are deeply underscored by dark smudges that softly speak of many restless nights. Not when the already scrawny teenager's hoodies start to swamp his thin frame even more. He's so pale now, and so very quiet-- when before he was fiery and full of arrogant confidence. 

I go to my seat, which is more toward the front of the class so I can see the board without having to wear my ancient, thick rimmed glasses that clash embarrassingly with my chin length, bowl cut of a hairstyle. Already getting teased enough for being a 'nerd', I don't want to add fuel to the funeral pyre of my potential social life. 

The ritual begins as soon as my butt settles onto the uncomfortable plastic seat. I turn sideways to fiddle around with my over the shoulder bag-- taking the opportunity to observe Jean. He's wearing a red wine beanie-- one that I have noticed him wearing quite frequently over the years-- and he has on a long sleeved, black and blue plaid flannel over shirt which is unbuttoned to reveal some obscure band t-shirt underneath. Jean looks the same as he always does, a valiant attempt at normalcy, that even I can see through. His lips are a thin line of pink against his too-pale face; the amber color of his eyes dulled by the indifferent mask he has diligently put into place. 

Jean slumps back, his display of nonchalance almost painfully apparent. He pulls at his sleeves, jamming them far over his fingers so they almost disappeared into the recesses of his overshirt. I noticed this new nervous habit a few days ago, where he would obsessively tug at the long sleeves of whatever he was wearing. He would pull his sleeves far past his wrists, and look around furtively as if he was trying to hide something he doesn't want any body to see. 

In the back of my mind, some thing nags at my conscious; tells me to pay attention to the clues because they spelled out the answer to the puzzle quite glaringly. But I only vaguely catalogue the behavior as odd, and turn back to the front of the class once I have my notebook and favorite mechanical pencil. 

Ms. Raal starts scribbling todays lesson plan on the white board. "Alright class," she announces in her usual chipper voice, "it's time to dive right in to the year's first literary group project!" A resounding chorus of groans is Ms. Raals' plaintive response. "Oh c'mon, it won't be that bad," she chides, smiling widely for added effect. 

"You will each need to find a partner, decide on a novel to read together, and by the end of the month write an original piece based off of the story. The point of this project is to learn how to work well with others, and utilize creativity in a mutual setting-- by tomorrow, you need to tell me who your partner's are." 

Ms. Raal nods her head emphatically and then goes on to wrap up our discussion on the power of metaphors. I tune out the rest of the discussion, mostly because I already know every point my classmates bring up, but also because my thoughts have narrowed in on who I want as my partner for this upcoming assignment. The trick will be getting him to agree...  
\---------------- 

The bell rings and it signals the end of the school day. The majority of my classmates are already breaking off into pairs and chatting about plans for the assignment. Not surprisingly, there is a wide berth given to Jean's seat as he silently stuffs his things into his black and white checkered back pack. He doesn't give any one a second glance as he stands to leave; and it becomes apparent that he isn't going to try and socialize, even for a project that is worth a big part of our over all grade. 

"Great," I think bitterly to myself, "this is all going to be on me." I only pray that Jean will see fit not to pop me one for bothering him. Before he can fully make it out the door, I scramble after him and call out, "Jean!" I can feel every set of eyes left in the classroom turn to look at me-- and it's unnerving to say the least... 

Jean stops mid-step and sighs; turning to peer down at me with cold, amber eyes. "Yeah?" he deadpans, the first time in little over a month since I've heard him utter a single word. His voice is flat and scratchy, like a record spinning against a warped spindle. 

"I ah... um," my own voice shakes and I flush at the awkward squeak it does at the end. He raises an eyebrow at me and frowns-- clearly telling me without words to get to the fucking point. I clear my throat and try again, "Um, would you like to be my partner for the project?" 

The remaining students behind us break out in hushed murmurs, obviously not having anything better to do than eavesdrop on our conversation. Jean's frown deepens, a hard edge flashing through his eyes. "Why do you wanna be my partner, Arlert?" he snaps. 

I'm surprised by two things in that moment:  
One: that Jean knows my last name and  
Two: that he deemed me worthy of a full sentence response. 

Eyes wide in the aftermath of my shock I quickly reply, "Well, I don't really know any one in class and it seems like almost every one has paired off already, so..." I trail off, and nervously look up to meet his gaze. 

Jean's eyes narrow suspiciously and he scrutinizes me for a few moments, before shrugging. "Fine," he finally mumbles, "if you wanna be my partner, then go ahead." 

The whispering around us grows louder, and it makes Jean scowl down at his gray Vans. "Okay," I smile, and try not to let his obvious dislike for our forced interaction get to me. "We can talk about it more after school tomorrow, at my place if you'd like?" I let the invitation ambiguously float in the space between us, leaving it up to Jean to decide. 

His eyes snap up to meet mine, and I swear the confusion I see there is the strongest emotion I have seen in them for a long time. "Yeah, sure..." Jean replies, voice soft.  
"Tomorrow," I repeat, trying not to sound as excited as I felt. I really did not expect to get this far so soon with Jean. Maybe at this rate, I will get him to smile at least once by the time this project was over. I can only hope. 

"Tomorrow," Jean echoes, and nods. Without another word he turns on his heel, and finally leaves the classroom; the gossip about our exchange a vague buzz in the background. 

I follow Jean's example and leave class too, to head home. I'll have to run this by my Grandfather when I get home, but knowing him, he will be beyond ecstatic that I am making a friend other than Eren or Mikasa. Though as of now, 'friend' is a very loose term. I definitely wouldn't mind Jean eventually becoming my friend, it's more in his court if he decides to want anything to do with me after all is said and done. 

Only time will be able to tell how this all turns out. But I feel optimistic. 

Though if I had known at the beginning, how truly broken Jean Kirschtein really was, I'm not so sure how far that optimism would have lasted.


	2. Squares Don't Fit Into Circles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean is roped into going over to Armin's house to start on their English project, and just hopes the far too perceptive classmate of his doesn't start noticing how fractured he really is.

Chapter Two: 

Squares Don't Fit Into Circles 

A/N: So, since today is my birthday and I have officially turned 25, I want to post this new chapter today to celebrate with any of the people reading this! I'm already working on chapter three, and hope to have it finished in about a week or two.   
Also, as a warning, this particular chapter (set in Jean's point of view) contains graphic depictions of self harm, purging, and other general eating disorders. If these things are triggering, I appreciate you not reading this story in general. Any way, on with the show! 

 

Through the old, sun-faded curtains (that are mapped with hundreds of little holes either from moths eating away at them, or from drunken cigarette mistakes) I can see the white-blue flash of the television screen against the wall. I sigh heavily, my mood sinking deeper into the blackest depths. 

When I open the rusty screen door to our trailer the smell of alcohol is so heavy in the air that it makes me feel dizzy for a moment. "Jean-boooooo," my mom croons, smiling at me from her recliner. I see at least three empty beer cans littered like precious artifacts around her feet, and she has another one in her hand that she takes a deep swig from. 

"Yes?" I sigh, trying to keep the worn down quality in my voice to a minimum. I set my back pack down near the door, and fold my arms against my stomach as I wait for her to drunkenly babble on about whatever she needs to tell me. 

"Your momma's hungry..." she stops and smiles sweetly. The kind of smile a child would give their parent if they wanted some thing. I sort of want to scream when I see it, but I hold myself together. No matter how much I've come to despise my mother's choices in life since dad walked out on us, I can't bring myself to hate her. She's all I have left. 

"Do you want me to make you some thing to eat?" I ask tiredly. She nods and blissfully takes a few more sips of her beer. "Okay," I manage to mumble, before I walk into the match-box sized kitchen. The ice box has hardly anything in it, but there's enough cheese singles and bread to make toasted cheese sandwiches for us. I also fill a pot up with some water so I can make us some cup soups to help keep the edge off her hunger. 

I'm working quietly in the kitchen, the buzz in the background of whatever show my mom is watching keeps my mind off of how badly I just want to shut myself up in my room and cry. When the water starts roiling, and I feel the steam burning my elbow, I turn the heat off and pour the boiling water over our instant noodles. I hate that I have the urge to pour some of that scalding water onto my skin, and I know if my mom wasn't mere feet away and in plain sight of me, I would have done it. I feel disgusted with myself, but wether it's from having these thoughts and urges in the first place, or because I chickened out of hurting myself like I deserve, I can't tell. 

"Here," I say softly, giving my mom a paper plate with a couple sandwiches, the instant noodles I set on the t.v. tray by her side. "Do you need anything else?"   
She looks at me like I can emit actual rays of sunshine. "No little Jean-bo, my sweet boy..." she trails off and smiles at me, too wide. Too intoxicated to feel like it's genuine. 

"Thank you suuuuuunnshiiiineee, you're such a good boy." I smile, and nod shakily at the praise. 

"I'm uh... I'm going to go eat in my room. I've got a lot of homework tonight." I know she'll easily fall for the lie. She always takes everything I say at face value, even when she's not plastered off her ass. 

"Hmmmm," is my mom's only response, her focus captured once again by the television. I shift awkwardly in place for a few seconds more, before I take my cue to leave. I stop by the front door to collect my back pack, and then I shut the door to my room behind me as quietly as I can. 

My back slumps against the barricade of my door, the thin veil that separates me from the oppressive atmosphere on the other side. I slide to the floor, setting my food aside to be forgotten. I'm not particularly hungry. My appetite is as non-existent as my dead best friend. But even in my mother's drunken stupors, she notices when I don't eat. She's yet to figure out that spending time on my knees, bent over a toilet, has become a new development in the war against myself. There are plenty of ways a person can punish themself after all. 

Instinctively my knees pull up against my chest, and I lean over them; my arms wrapped around my head like a protective shield. "Marco," I whimper, and hate the sound of his name in the silence. Shoulders shaking, and behind closed doors, I finally give in to the sorrow that plagues me every moment of every day since he was taken away from me. "I-I'm sorry..." the tiniest plea for forgiveness wobbles brokenly from between my trembling lips. I had once promised him to never do this to myself again. He hated how I felt the need to hurt myself. 

But he was no longer here to disappoint. No longer here to motivate me to become a person worthy of his friendship. I suddenly stand, and unsteadily make my way to the cheap desk my mother worked hours to get for me when I started high school. Yanking the middle drawer open my hand grasps around blindly, through the tears blurring my vision, for one of the lighters I'd stolen from my mom. I make sure to keep it away from the blade (which is hidden under my mattress) in case my mom ever decides to go snooping through my desk again. This way she would probably just assume I'd taken up smoking, and not realize the far more horrible truth. 

Once I have my lighter, and I've retrieved the box cutter from under my mattress, I sit cross-legged on the other side of my bed where it shields me from the view of my bedroom door. I always feel safer here, my favorite place in the world to be. That place used to be sprawled out over Marco's bed playing video games, or watching old reruns of 90's cartoons. I haven't touched a single game since Marco died. Now I have a far more suitable form of entertainment. 

My self hatred is boiling under my skin, begging to be met with a fire that can rival the burn. Who was I to deny these particular demons a taste of my pain? I roll up my sleeves, the dizzying array of cuts and burn marks no longer making me feel queasy with guilt when I see them. Now it's like seeing old friends at a high school reunion. Interesting, but not enough to keep your attention for long. 

I flick the lighter on, watch the white sparks as they herald the yellow-orange, flickering flame. With a kind of fascination that is no where near to being healthy, I watch the blade as I hold it over the lighter's fire. I let it sit there for about fifteen seconds, before I let the clip go and the lighter dies. My face is blank, devoid of any emotion as I slowly press the metal into my flesh. 

White hot pain sparks behind my eyelids. But I do not pull the searing blade away, instead I only press harder as my heart begins to pound. Sweat is beading at my temples, my fingers starting to shake as the fire burns along every last one of my nerve endings. With a gasp, I finally pull the blade away, the white blister underneath throbbing painfully. My fingers trace it almost lovingly, soft and gentle just like Marco used to brush the hair out of my eyes. 

I look over to my desk, instantly hating myself for the subconscious reaction as my eyes land on the only framed picture there is in the entire house. It's a photo of Marco and me that his dad took when he dropped us off on our first day of highschool. Marco's smiling so wide that his dimples are almost craters in his face, and he has me pulled tightly against his body so I can't find a way out of getting my picture taken with him. 

The searing lump in my throat hurts worse than the burn marked angrily across my flesh. "I'm so fucking sorry Marco..." my voice quakes, "but you already know how weak I am." With that sentiment left floating away into silence, I flick the lighter back on and watch as the flame kisses the blade. Fire meeting cold steel. 

 

There are ten new burns added to the intricate patterns across my arms, and at least a dozen fresh cuts. The demons only quieted inside my head when I pay the price for my sins in blood too. I clean myself up methodically, and put my tools of self destruction away. My uneaten food goes down the toilet later, when my mom's passed out drunk in her recliner, the television still painting the room in hues of white and blue. 

I sigh and look at her sadly now that she isn't awake to see my expression. She ate all of her food at least, but there are two more empty beer cans joining the previous four. I pick them all up and wash them out so they can be put in the recycling bin. Every penny counted when you were as poor as us, with a mother who some times spent what little money she made on booze and smokes instead of food. I grab one of the blankets off her bed, and tuck it around her snoring form as best as I can. The last thing I want is for her to get sick from the cold. 

"Night mom," I whisper, turning off the t.v. so the electric bill won't skyrocket to a price we just can not afford. Of course she doesn't answer me, but that's okay. I'm just glad she's still here to say goodnight to, even if she can't hear me.   
I go silently back to my room, and work on my home work well into the morning hours. 

\--------------------------------------- 

 

"Hey Jean!" I jump in my seat when I hear some one say my name. Quite cheerfully too. Since Marco, no one talks to me that way. I frown, looking up to find that blond nerd who is in my AP English class. I'm at the end of the most secluded table in the cafeteria, though it doesn't matter much, since my presence at any table is always matched with vacancy. Marco and me used to love having tables all to ourselves. Now it's not quite as thrilling. 

"What do you want?" I find myself sneering. I don't really mean to be so nasty and rude all of the time, it just sort of... happens. 

The blond kid's smile wavers the tiniest bit before it stretches wider. Becomes a little faker. "I was uh-- well I came to tell you that my grandpa said it was okay for you to come over to my place after school. You know, for the project." 

I'd almost forgotten about that. For a moment I kind of want to tell this kid to go fuck himself, that I decided I wasn't interested in working with him after all. That was my social anxiety talking though. I knew I needed to get this project done so I could maintain my grade point average. And I seriously doubted any other kid in my class would be as stupid as this one, and offer to work with me. 

"Oh yeah... that," I offer up sheepishly as way of an apology. I'm nervously toying with the sleeves of my hoodie, wondering if I can even muster up enough cheery behavior to hang around some one new for so long. At least with Marco, he knew I was a depressed, self mutilating asshole. 

"So did you ask your parents if it was okay to come over to my house? If they need to know where I live you can call them and give them my address." The blond kid is babbling on, his words coming out faster and more nervous sounding the longer he talks. 

"Uh, yeah. My mom said it was fine," I lie. I completely forgot to mention it to her last night. Not like she would have remembered anyway in the state she was in.   
Armin (I finally remember his name) smiles a little more genuinely. "Okay. I'll see you after class. I uh, hope you don't mind taking the bus with me. I kind of live out in the sticks." 

Riding the bus, surrounded by a bunch of annoying and noisy people sounds like hell. "I don't mind," I say softly instead. 

Some of the anxious lines around Armin's too-big-for-his-age, baby blue eyes, disappear when I say that. I hate that the relief on his face, because of some thing I said, makes me feel a little happy. Those feelings were supposed to solely be reserved for Marco. "I-I've gotta go now," Armin stammers, but his bright smile just won't go away no matter how much I want it to, "my friends are waiting for me to get back." He looks behind himself, and I follow his gaze. 

A few tables away I see some brunet guy wave impatiently at Armin. His snap-back makes him look like a total douchebag, and I wonder why a nerd like Armin has a friend like that. On the other side of yolo-swag-tries-too-hard I see a pretty Asian girl smiling slightly at us. I sort of remember seeing her in some of my classes over the years, but that's it. 

"See ya," I mutter, scowling down at the tabletop in front of me. 

Armin nods and then jogs back over to join his friends, the brunet immediately engaging him in what looks to be a heated conversation. The Asian girl's cool, dark eyes catch me watching them and it makes me look away uncomfortably. Armin and his friends are of no concern to me... at least, that's what I tell myself as I get up and walk to the men's room to purge my stomach of the few half hearted bites I had eaten of my peanut butter and jelly sandwich. 

 

I have to push past a couple of guys hiding out by the bathroom entrance, while they furtively smoke some cigarettes. They don't pay me much attention though as I walk over to the furthermost stall and shut the door; sliding the flimsy bar into place so some one won't walk in on me puking. I stand there for a few minutes, listening to the hushed conversation, until one of the boys mentions they should leave, and I hear the door swing shut on its heavy hinges. 

My knees fall instantly to the dirty floor and I shove the the toilet seat up hastily. Without a second thought two of my fingers curl down the back of my throat, jamming as harshly as I can manage against my uvula. I feel saliva rush up and I gag for a moment before yanking my fingers out of my throat as I vomit bodily into the toilet bowl. Soggy chunks of bread come up with lots of stomach acid, and it burns my throat. My fingers are half way to my mouth again when I hear the men's room door bang open. I freeze where I am, hoping no one notices the rancid stench of my puke. 

"Seriously Armin, I have no idea why you even want to bother with that asshole. I heard he deals drugs from Connie, you don't need to get mixed up with a punk like that." 

My heart hammers in my chest. I know without having to look that the boy who is speaking is Armin's brunet friend; he has a voice that suitably matches his angry features. I hear one the doors a few stalls down slam shut, and then the unmistakable sound of a zip going down before one of them takes a piss. 

"Eren," I hear Armin's now familiar high pitched voice, and he sounds tired and a little annoyed. 

"What? I'm just looking out for my best friend. Don't give me that tone of voice." 

"I seriously doubt Jean deals drugs. He's just a quiet guy who doesn't like to be around people. Besides, we don't even know him-- so I'm not going to judge him until I see what he's really like." 

My hand slowly falls away from my lips, and I stare shamefully at the toilet where my meager lunch now resides. Armin wouldn't so hotly defend me if he really knew what I was like. 

"Fine fine," I hear Armin's friend Eren grouse, the sound of the toilet flushing punctuating his words. "Let's hurry up and get out of here Armin, I think some one got sick in one of the stalls-- it reeks of puke. Lazy ass janitors never getting their jobs done..." the sound of his grumbling is cut off as the two of them leave the bathroom after I hear Eren hastily wash his hands. 

With a self loathing sigh I stand up, and flush away the evidence of my shame. I leave the stall and go wash my mouth out at the sink to help rid it of the acidic taste that clings to my tastebuds. When I straighten back up, I catch sight of my face in the scratched up mirror above the sink. I want to cringe over how unhealthy and pale I look, lack of food and probably shock from burning myself so much last night giving my skin a sickly pallor. My expression stays unyeildingly neutral. 

I stare at my reflection for only a few more seconds, before I can't stand the sight of my self any more and look away. I leave the bathroom feeling worse than when I came in. 

\-------------------------------------- 

"Do you want to grab a soda before we catch the bus? My bus driver is really cool and lets us have drinks, as long as we don't spill them." 

I almost don't realize Armin is asking me a question at first, because I'm so lost in my tidal wave of anxiety as we walk side by side to the front of the school. It doesn't help that every one we walk past stares at us as if we are some type of mythical creatures. "Oh uh, no that's okay..." I finally mumble in response. I don't feel like sharing with him the fact that even if I wanted a soda, I had no money with which to pay for one. The last allowance my mom was actually able to scrape together to give me went into buying the box cutter under my mattress at home. 

"Do you mind if I get one?" I don't know why he bothered asking, but I shrug and shake my head any way. 

"I don't mind." 

He smiles at me. I frown, not understanding why what I said deserves a smile. Armin gets behind an energetic girl, who bounces up and down as she waits for the soda machine to spit out her drink; her long brown ponytail whipping around and almost hitting Armin in the face. I watch him stand there patiently, and I'm sort of impressed. If I was the one standing in his spot, I think I would have told the girl to fucking get lost. 

The girl gets her soda and turns around, and when she sees Armin she chirps happily, "Hi! Where's Eren and Mikasa? I thought the three of you never separated." I can tell she's teasing Armin, and part of me wants to tell her to mind her own damn business. But Armin just smiles brightly at her. 

"I've got a big project in my AP English class," Armin replies and he turns to look at me before continuing, "so Jean and I are going over to my place to work on it. Eren would just distract us the whole time, you know how he gets Sasha." 

The girl's large brown eyes flick over to me, and her eyebrows shoot up her to her hairline as she finally notices my presence. I watch her cheery expression gradually fall, and now she's looking pretty nervous. I can't help scowling at her. It's sort of my defense mechanism against judgemental strangers. 

"O-oh..." she stammers, looking between Armin's ever present smile and my angry frown with increasing discomfort. "Well have fun Armin, I'll see you in Cooking Class tomorrow." 

"Bye Sasha," Armin calls after her as she bee-lines it for the school's entrance. He looks at me after she disappears from sight and says, "sorry about the hold up, we're going to need to hurry now if we want to catch the bus on time." 

I just shrug while Armin slips a couple dollar bills into the vending machine and punches some numbers into the key pad. After the machine lets out a deep, grating hum I hear the bottle fall into the catch, and Armin bends over to retrieve his Mountain Dew. "You sure you don't want one?" Armin asks, as his change rattles into the small black dish attached to the machine. 

"Yeah." My curt, and admittedly rude responses don't seem to phase Armin in the slightest. It reminds me a bit of Marco, and suddenly I have the strongest need for my lighter. I chew the inside of my cheeks instead, and I taste blood when I puncture one of the pre-existing sores in my mouth. I follow Armin out of the school without another word. 

 

We just barely manage to catch the bus, the both of us needing to run the last twenty feet before the the doors swished closed on us. Armin leads me to a spot in the middle of the bus, a place courteously left open. I assume that because he's one of the regulars, there's an unspoken rule as to which seat is his. We fall into the seat that can barely sit two people, our arms touching. I expect him to fill up the awkward silence between us with nervous chatter the whole way, but instead he quietly looks out the window as the scenery slips by in a blur. 

I watch him occasionally take swigs out of his Mountain Dew, and he some times pulls his yellow iPhone out of his jacket pocket and chicken pecks at his keyboard. He smiles at his phone a lot, his fingers flying over the keys faster in those moments. I assume he's texting his friends, and look away; my throat tightening painfully. Some times I find myself texting Marco's number, when I'm alone in my room late at night, with a bottle of pills staring me down. Daring me to take the bait. I always erase the messages before I finish composing them, knowing that texting a dead boy is completely pointless. 

"Jean," I jump, Armin's soft voice startling me after so much time spent in silence. He jerks his head as the bus rolls to a stop, and I realize that we're the only two people left. The last stop. 

We both get up and walk to the front, and Armin bids the Bus Driver a good day before we go down the steep steps as the bus's doors slide shut behind us. We've been deposited on a long stretch of a dirt road, that fades off for miles into the distance. There are massive rows of corn fields on the other side of the road that go on with no end in sight. A large green tractor sputters slowly by. Armin wasn't kidding when he told me he lived out in the sticks... 

"My house isn't too far from here," Armin says and starts walking along the dirt road; his messenger bag swinging at his hip. I don't want to complain to Armin about having to walk, but I'm starting to feel a little light headed. My pulse pounds in my ears and my head aches. I know tonight I'll need to eat some thing when I get home, otherwise I might land myself in the hospital. And that's not really an option, I don't want to put the burden of medical bills on my moms shoulders right now. 

Thankfully a little white house with a big front porch looms into view. The blue shutters and big Oak tree, with a swing swaying lazily back and forth from one of the branches, tells me a story of a happy childhood. No wonder Armin smiles so much. I'm all at once envious and a little bitter over it. 

Armin takes the steps two at a time, and pulls a set of keys from his pants pocket; opening the door and holding it ajar for me. I go in, feeling a little queasy from the nervousness that settles into my empty stomach. "Make yourself at home," Armin calls after me as he heads into the kitchen that's not too far from the front door. 

I look around his small, but nicely furnished home. The walls are all painted a sweet buttercream color, and there are lots of paintings and framed photographs hanging on them. There's a low wall that separates the kitchen from the living room, and it is open so you can see into each room from whatever one you are in; and there are vibrant flowers in hand painted pots, bright green ferns and trailing vines of Ivy all along the the length of the walls shelf. I don't even remember Marco's family having real, living plants in their home-- all of them were plastic. 

I walk over and touch one of the velvet soft petals of a bright orange flower that I sort of recall is called a California poppy. I find myself smiling just a little at the small, delicate thing. I always wished we could have vibrant, pretty things in a house that made them look like they belonged there. 

"Do you like flowers Jean?" Armin asks me, and I'm suddenly aware of him standing right on the other side of the wall, looking at me with his too-blue eyes. I frown, not liking being caught in such a vulnerable moment and I remove my hand from the flower petal as if it's burned me. 

"Sort of I guess," I mumble, while I back away from all the plants. Armin doesn't comment any further on the subject, and I'm kind of grateful. 

He walks around the wall and comes over to me, and I notice a plate in his hand that has celery sticks with peanut butter and a few chocolate chip cookies on it. "I didn't know if you wanted a snack, or what you'd like, but you can have whatever you want. I've got lots of fruit in the kitchen too, or we could make pizza bites if you want some thing else instead." 

My stomach growls, and I hope Armin doesn't hear how loud and empty it sounds. "I-it's fine, you didn't have to bring me snacks." 

"Well I want some thing to eat, so I figured you might be hungry too." Armin shrugs with one shoulder as he walks over to the living room. I follow him, and sit awkwardly on his plush, beige couch. He pushes a dark, wooden coffee table closer to us and then sets the plate of snacks in a spot easily accessible to us both. Armin grabs a celery stick and crunches into it as he sits next to me, his other arm rifling through his messenger bag and he pulls out a notebook, a pencil, and his Mountain Dew setting them on the table. 

"Oh! If you're thirsty just let me know. We've got juices, and water. Maybe a can of Diet Coke or two..." he trails off, and he looks like he's trying hard to remember. 

"Thanks, I'll let you know if I get thirsty," I lie. I wasn't quite comfortable with the thought of asking him to give me free stuff just because we were forced to do a project together. Armin eats at least three sticks of peanut butter covered celery and a cookie before he even brings up the topic of our project. I just sit there trying to will my hands from reaching out to the snack plate... 

"So," Armin pauses and sips at his soda, "what kinds of books do you like to read, if you even like reading at all? Admittedly I'm more into Non-Fiction books, mostly informational stuff. Not very fun for a class project aimed at utilizing our creativity." 

I feel a little embarrassed admitting it, but withholding information just for the sake of my image, would make this whole interacting thing stretch on far longer than I want it to. So I take the plunge. 

"I um... I really like fantasy or r-romance novels." 

"You sound embarrassed to admit that," Armin tells me matter of factly, and my palms start to sweat. I expect him to make fun of me, or give me a hard time, but he just smiles and accepts it. "Are there any of those books that are your favorites? They seem like they will make much better options for our project." 

I feel myself actually perk up, and I realize that I'm excited for the first time since Marco died, to hold a conversation with some one. "Yeah, actually I've got my favorite book in my back pack right now-- I must have read it at least a dozen times." I pull my back pack off of my back and unzip it to root around blindly for the book. When I find it, I hand it over to Armin who studies the cover of it for a little while. 

"The Four Percent Facility," he reads the book's title aloud, "what's it about?" 

This is the moment when I truly feel self conscious. I wasn't expecting for him to be interested enough to ask. "Well um... it's truthfully not the most cheerful of books," I waffle, trying to prolong explaining it to him. Favorite books tend to reflect the reader's personality, or mindset. Armin would know I'm fucking crazy if I told him... 

He just shrugs and looks at me like nothing can phase him. "You're saying this to boy who reads books about serial killers for fun," Armin admits, biting into another celery stick. 

Armin's admission makes me feel a little less like a crazy person. And it definitely deserves a response. "It's uh-- well it's about the future of society when a drug is created that can cure everything from depression, anxiety, PTSD; all of the kinds of mental problems that land people in loony bins. It works for about ninety six percent of the world's population-- leaving the four percent that no longer fit into the world's standard." I pause, feeling a little awkward sharing this with him, but Armin looks so attentive and interested it spurs me to keep going. 

"The story follows a girl named Alma, one of the people in the four percent. She desperately wants the drug to work for her, because she has a lot of mental disorders that make her life a living hell, but it never seems to work for her. It leads her mother to send her off to one of the Correctional Facilities as a last ditch effort to fix her. And well from there the story gets really mysterious, and twisted." I realize I'm tugging anxiously at my hoodie sleeves by the time I've finished explaining the story to Armin, and I force my hands to still. 

"That actually sounds really cool," Armin finally says, breaking the silence that has cropped up between us. 

"R-really?" I find myself replying incredulously. This book has been my jealously guarded secret ever since I found it in a box of free books at the library by the trailer park where I live, so I regard Armin suspiciously. The only person who was as interested in the book as me, had been Marco. And I knew he only loved it so much, because he said it helped him better understand my head and how it could plummet into such dark depths. 

"Yes, it really does sound interesting. I like anything to do with psychology, and the fact that it's a fictional book makes it more intriguing. I'm used to reading case studies, and text books on psychology, but I'm definitely up for a change in pace." 

It takes me a few seconds to realize that he had implied that he wants to read my book, but when it does dawn on me, I find myself smiling. "You can uh... you can borrow it, if you'd like." 

"I would like that! Thanks Jean, I promise to get it back to you in a few days," Armin replies, setting the book in the empty space on the couch at his side. 

"Okay," I say bashfully in response. I wasn't expecting him to want to actually read it. But the fact that he does makes me feel kind of happy. It feels strange in a way, as I was not intending for this forced interaction to actually go so well. For the first time in a very long time, I have a vague sense of hope that maybe, just maybe-- I can make a new friend. Even if it is against my better judgement, since no one else should ever be pulled into my destructive orbit again. There is a selfish, lonely part of me that wants Armin to befriend me. I kind of hate that part of myself. 

Armin offers the plate of snacks to me again, but I politely decline; my self hatred making it difficult to even think about being hungry. 

\-------------------------- 

"I'm home," a wheezy voice calls out as Armin's front door is shut. I look up from the Chemistry homework I am having trouble making heads or tails of, Armin at my side nose deep in the book he decided we would use for our project. He got about two chapters in when he declared as such, before going right back into the paper world of ink and magic. An old man slightly limps into the living room, and I assume that it's the grandfather Armin mentioned yesterday. It strikes me then, this old man is probably Armin's stand in parent. He hasn't once mentioned having a mom or dad. 

"Hi grandpa," Armin replies, not even tearing his eyes once away from the book. I feel a sense of pride seeing him so invested in it. "This is Jean, the boy I told you about yesterday. We're working on an English project," Armin informs his grandpa, his eyes finally coming to a stop from their frantic back and forth movements as he read. He looks up and gives his grandfather a big smile. 

"H-hello Mr. Arlert," my voice shakes a bit, and I inwardly cringe. Social Anxiety is a real son of a bitch to deal with some times. 

Armin's grandfather chuckles, the sound of it round and warm. It reminds me a bit of Santa Claus for some reason. "No need to call me Mr. Arlert sprout, Alrik is just fine." He comes over and ruffles Armin's blond mop of hair, and I'm surprised when Armin doesn't complain or shove his grandfather's hand away. I never thought I would meet a teenage boy who wasn't embarrassed to be treated like a little kid in front of a classmate. "Is he staying for dinner?" Armin's grandfather asks, suddenly turning his attention to me. 

I notice then that his eyes are as powder blue as his grandson's, and just as bright for his old age. "I haven't asked yet," Armin replies. "Do you want to stay for dinner Jean? Grandpa is a really good cook." 

They both look to me expectantly, pinning me under the weight of their identical blue eyes. The idea of staying for dinner makes me feel a little on edge. My stomach groans its reminder of how empty it is, the offer sounding more and more tempting with each passing minute; but I don't want to grub up on the promise of free food. No matter how hungry I am. I think Armin senses my hesitation and internal conflict because he adds on hastily, 

"We have plenty of food, and we usually make too much any way and have to eat leftovers for days. We really would like you to stay for dinner, right grandpa?" Armin turns his attention to his grandfather, looking between us as if to encourage him to help convince me. 

"Of course, any of your freinds are welcome to whatever we have around the house." 

Armin looks at me like his grandfather's back up is all the convincing I could ever need. It's sort of childish, but endearing, and I feel the last of my willpower crumble away. 

"Y-yeah, sure. I'd love to stay for dinner. I can uh... I can help out if you need me to." 

Mr. Arlert's expression softens, the deep furrows in his face becoming ravines as they scrunch together when he smiles. "Thank you for the offer sprout, but don't worry. Just finish your home work, and if I'm still cooking when you're done, then you both can come help if you want." 

"O-okay," I stammer in response, my cheeks starting to flush a little. Even though only a month ago I spent almost every evening eating dinner at the Bodt residence, I still can't help being nervous over staying at some one else's home for dinner. 

"I hope you like soup, I'm making a cheesy potato bacon one for dinner," Mr. Arlert informs me. My mouth most definitely does not water at the sound of it... 

"That sounds really good. Um, thanks," I finish lamely. 

Mr. Arlert just chuckles his Santa Claus chuckle, and limps over to the kitchen. I watch him as he goes, wondering how any one so old and obviously in pain, can manage to keep on going like that. I suspect it's because he has some one to keep going for. 

Armin closes my book and stands, stretching a bit before he bends over and grabs the now empty snack plate that I never took anything from. "I'm going to go help my grandpa, you can join us when you finish your Chemistry homework. Though if you need my help, just come get me. I love Chemistry." 

"Alright," I mumble, tacking on a more appreciative sounding "thanks". Armin grins at me, and follows after his grandfather into the kitchen. I can see them from where I'm sitting on the couch, and I watch how fondly Armin's grandfather looks at his grandson as they both fall into a familiar dinner routine. When I finally manage to tear my eyes away, there's a lump in throat. I can't tell if it's jealousy, or gratitude, that such a nice kid like Armin still has a family member so present and loving in his life.   
I try not to think about it too much as I grab my pencil, and turn my attention back to my Chemistry work. 

 

"Do you still need any help?" I pipe up shyly from the doorway when I've finally finished my home work. I stand there shuffling awkwardly from foot to foot before Armin looks up from where he is cubing up potatoes at the island countertop.   
"  
Yeah actually, can you measure out the milk and cheese? the recipe is over there," he stops explaining to point with his knife toward a book propped up on a little wooden stand, "and the measuring cups are in that cupboard," he directs his knife some where by my head and I look to see a few wall shelves with dark blue doors. 

"I can do that," I reply, walking around him so I can peer down at the cook book, opened to a recipe labeled Parmesan Potato Bacon Soup. After I memorize how much milk and cheese I would need to measure out, I sidle around Armin again and go to the cupboard where the measuring cups should be. They're easy to find, situated front and center on the second shelf, and I grab two of them and take them over to the island. 

Mr. Arlert is at the stove, stirring stuff around in a big soup kettle. The smell of it makes my mouth water and I have to admit, for the first time in a little over a month, I'm truly excited to eat some thing. I go over to the ice box and grab the gallon of milk and bag of pre-shredded parmesan, taking the ingredients back to my station so I can measure out what is needed for the recipe. 

"Thanks Jean," Armin says, and takes both measuring cups over to his grandfather. I stand there, nervously chewing my lip now that I have nothing to do. "The soup will be ready in about fifteen minutes," Armin tells me when he walks back over to me. "In the mean time, I can review your Chemistry home work for you if you'd like?" 

"Sure, I'd appreciate that," I say, and follow Armin back to our spots on the couch. I slide my notes and text book over to him once we've sat down, and he immediately begins to pour over my work; his eyes moving so fast I'd be surprised if he can retain anything he is reading. 

After a few minutes, Armin looks up and points to one of the problems I had been iffy about the answer to. "This one's almost right, you just need to make a few adjustments," he leans over, tucking some of his long blond hair behind an ear as he does. I realize how pretty his hair is then, kind of like a girls. It's as golden as honey and looks as soft as corn silk. I twirl a limp, greasy clump of my sandy hair self consciously. 

He walks me through each step patiently, never once huffing in annoyance or raising his voice in anger when it takes me a few tries to understand what he means. Armin's voice is soft, and slow as he explains, and our heads are bent together over my textbook. This is how Mr. Arlert finds us when he comes into the living room to let us know that dinner is ready, and I blush as I realize how close Armin and I are sitting. When did I start letting my guard down so easily around him? 

"C'mon Jean, we'll finish the problem later," Armin says, standing and waving me over as he walks away, "help me set up the t.v. trays please-- grandpa and I like to watch Jeopardy together while we eat dinner." 

"Sure thing," I shoot up off the couch and do as Armin so kindly asked of me. 

\-------------------------------------- 

"Thank you for dinner Mr. Arlert," I say after we have all scraped our bowls clean. It was some of the tastiest soup I've ever eaten, and they even gave me slices of home made bread to go alongside it. My stomach is full to bursting, even if I ate only half the amount of food Armin suprisingly put away for such a small kid. I felt my stomach roil a bit half way through dinner, the richness of the soup unsettling my appetite after so many days spent not eating and throwing up what small amounts of food I did manage to get down. I was a little scared that maybe I would have to take a trip to the bathroom and upchuck, but I focused hard and took a small break from eating until my insides settled. 

"You're welcome," Mr. Arlert replies, sitting back in his recliner, patting his slightly rounded stomach contently. 

"I'll take our bowls to the kitchen grandpa," Armin pipes up, sweeping past us and collecting our empty dishes. "Do you want anything else Jean?" 

"Um, no thank you-- I'm really full right now." For a split second I notice Armin give me a strange look, and I'm afraid he's beginning to piece together some thing, before his expression shifts into a more pleasant one. Armin breezes into the kitchen, and I hear the sink start running as he cleans up our dishes. 

Mr. Arlert coughs and then suddenly speaks to me, "So Jean, are your parents coming to get you? Or do you need a ride home?" 

"Oh..." I feel so stupid. I haven't even thought of how I will get home. It's far too long of a walk in my current state, even if my head has finally stopped pounding now that I've had some food. "Um, m-my mom is probably at work and we don't," I pause, flushing in shame at what I'm about to admit, "we don't own a car." 

He doesn't look at me with pity in his eyes, he looks at me like he understands. "Well sprout, my junker ain't the best, but it'll get ya home. I don't want a scrawny kid like you walking such a long distance this late at night." I can't do anything but smile gratefully at his generosity. 

"Thank you sir," I say eagerly. Mr. Arlert just shakes his head as if to say 'think nothing of it' before he gets up out of his recliner (and I notice it's with some difficulty). He looks over to where Armin is still at in the kitchen, and I think I see him sigh in relief. I'm almost positive it is because he doesn't like his grandson watching him struggle and fight his aging body. 

"We're taking your friend home Armin, we can leave the rest of the clean up for when we get back." 

"Oh-- okay," Armin replies, shutting off the faucet, his hands wiping absentmindedly at his jeans to dry them. "I'll help you with that last problem while we're in the car," he tells me and I nod my gratitude for all his help. Armin leads me out the front door, and opens the back door of his grandfather's pick up truck for me. I clamber in after him, my long gangly limbs taking up to much space. I set aside my back pack and buckle up before putting my Chem book over my lap so Armin and I can go through it one last time. 

Mr. Arlert takes a little longer to get into the truck. I'm close enough to see the unguarded worry in Armin's eyes as he watches his grandfather struggle. The old pick up sputters and rattles to life, soft classical music humming and snapping with static in the background as soon as the engine comes to life. We drive with the music turned down as low as Armin's voice as we work out the last elusive question. 

 

"So where do you live sprout?" Mr. Arlert asks me once we reach town. I know immediately that I don't want them dropping me off at my actual home... so I decide to lie. 

"Oh, just take a right up on Maria street in a few blocks, it's just by the library." They have no way of knowing that I'm directing them to Marco's old house. It now sits empty, his parents moved away a few weeks after his funeral. I see him nod in the rear view mirror, and in a few minutes we turn onto the right street. We drive a few houses down, before I tell him to stop. Of course all the lights are off, and there's no car in the driveway of this abandoned house. That definitely fits what I had said earlier. 

I get out of the truck, swinging my backpack up onto my shoulder. Before I close the door behind me, Armin's unbuckled himself and is sticking his head out of the open door. 

"I'll see you tomorrow okay? If you need any more help with home work, you can find me in the cafeteria in the morning." He sounds so hopeful, like he actually wants me to come hang out with him more. I don't know how to feel about that. 

"And you're welcome any time at our place," Mr. Arlert chimes in, his body twisted so his blue eyes can regard me under his bushy gray eyebrows. 

I have to swallow back the sudden swell of teary gratitude. "Yeah, I'll see you tomorrow Armin. Thanks for everything," I smile at the both of them, truly meaning every word.   
Armin and his grandfather flash me identical, tender grins before Armin shuts the truck door, and settles himself in as they pull away; Mr. Arlert waving out the window as they drive off. I watch the tail lights until they disappear from view, and then I look up to the house where I spent so many happy days with Marco. 

Seeing it empty, and devoid of all the welcome and warmth it once held, reminds me too acutely of why it's now so vacant. I tear my eyes away from it when I feel them start to sting with fresh tears. I kick at the pavement, and then turn down the street that will lead me to the trailer park. 

As I walk, I look up at the night sky, marveling at all the stars. I wonder how many of them are dead, but still visible to me light years away. I wonder how long Marco will be like that to me, how long his memory will haunt me. And I think of Armin, of his patience and willingness to wait for me to extend my hand in friendship. Too much like Marco. Maybe that's why I find myself so easily letting my guard down around him. I don't know if I like that or not. 

All I know, is that Armin and I will most likely be spending a lot of time together over the next month. It wouldn't hurt me to be nice to him, but maybe I should start defining the walls between us more clearly. An innocent, kind kid like him has no need getting mixed up in my fucked up life. I still harbor enough guilt from dragging Marco into my dark orbit. Besides, I think sadly to myself, I've learned my lesson. 

Squares were never meant to fit into circles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Four Percent Facility-- is an actual novel I'm working on. I feel that with the way Jean is in this current fanfiction of mine, he would appreciate this book. 
> 
> Alrik Arlert-- Since Armin's grandfather does not have an official name in AoT/SnK I decided to give him a German name similiar to his grandson's.


	3. Strikes like Lightning, feels like Thunder

Chapter Three  
Strikes like Lightning, feels like Thunder  
I have my torso bent at an odd angle, my feet against the passengers seat making my knees bend over my stomach. It's not the most graceful looking position in the world, but it is quite comfortable for setting my book in the crook of my knees while I read. I sort of wish I had grabbed my glasses on the way out of the house, but I didn't want Jean seeing me wear them. They make me look like a nerdy dad trying too hard to be trendy. I only picked them out at the time because Eren said they made me look 'smart' and 'worldly'. It taught me never to trust his sense of fashion ever again.  
The radio is a pleasant equalizer to what would otherwise be silence as my grandpa drives us home; it's not too loud as to distract me while I read, but it's up high enough that it fills in all the quiet spaces just right. After I finish the last paragraph of the third chapter in the book Jean so kindly has let me borrow, I close it and turn my attention to the front of the car. "Hey grandpa," I speak up, finally erasing the silence.  
"Hm?" He responds, his deep set eyes moving from the road to look at me in the rear view mirror.  
I decide to choose my words carefully before I speak. "I don't know if I've mentioned this yet, but we had a kid die in our class in January. His name was Marco." I stop, my brow furrowing when I realize I'm starting to feel a little emotional. It's strange how only now, a month after the incident, I'm finally beginning to process it. I guess the initial shock and subsequent concern for Jean kept my mind off the situation.  
"I'm sorry to hear that," my grandfather replies, his voice sounding heavy. When I see his expression in the rear view mirror, it's like I've told him a close friend has died. He looks so sad, and I all at once understand why. He knows what it's like to lose a child.  
I clear my throat in an attempt to rid it of the tightness that's suddenly constricting my vocal chords. "A-anyway, I bring it up now because Marco used to be Jean's best friend-- in fact, I think he was his only friend. And well," I stop, trying to find the best way to put this, "I'm sort of afraid that there's some thing not quite right with Jean right now. It started off as a vague feeling, but after today I'm almost positive he's not coping with the death of Marco very well." I realize once a piece of skin is between my teeth, that I've been chewing around my nails as I spoke.  
My grandfather is quiet for a while, and I wonder if he doesn't know what to say-- which would be strange, because he always knew what to say to cheer me up, or help me with my problems. "Losing some one you love is hard," my grandpa slowly says, like he's trying to tread on thin ice. "Your new friend, Jean, he seems like a nice kid. Maybe a little rough around the edges, but you can tell he has a big heart. And that heart is probably hurting right now, and maybe a young kid like him doesn't know what to do with it."  
He pauses, and sighs heavily before continuing, "I guess what I'm saying is, try and be there for him. Even if he pushes you away. Just let him know that he's not quite so alone in how he feels. That's the only thing we can do as humans, when we know someone who has lost a loved one."  
"Thank you grandpa, I'll keep that in mind." He just nods his understanding, and then it's silent between us again. My thoughts are far from quiet though for the rest of the car ride home.  
\-------------------------------  
Eren has a strange love for our cafeteria food, especially concerning breakfasts. Mikasa and I still can't figure out why, but if you made Eren late and he missed out on getting his tater tots for breakfast, all hell would break loose. So every morning at seven o' clock sharp, Eren and Mikasa can be found in the cafeteria at our usual table. I always arrive about ten minutes after, preferring to eat my breakfast at home.  
This morning is no different. Eren is already at the table eating his weight in carbs, and when he sees me, he waves his spork around enthusiastically for me to hurry up and come over. As soon as I fall into place within our little trio, Eren greets me with his mouth full of scrambled eggs, "m'rning Armin." I try not to sigh over his severe lack of table manners... if his mom could see him right now, his ears would be pinched so hard he'd lose the feeling in them. Luckily, Mikasa plays the role of 'mom' rather well when Eren is at school.  
"Don't talk with your mouth full Eren, it's gross." Mikasa's tone isn't angry or reprimanding, just matter of fact. I think some times that's why Eren is more apt to listen to her over any one else.  
"Sorry," he mumbles, making sure this time he's swallowed his food before he speaks. Before he shovels more egg into his mouth Eren looks at me for a few moments before he asks, "Sooooo... what was it like having the biggest enigma on campus at your house yesterday? Was he an asshole? I bet he was an asshole."  
"Eren," I sigh out his name in exasperation, and give him a very unamused glare. "Jean isn't an asshole. He's actually a pretty nice guy, he's just quiet and maybe a little awkward."  
"So he didn't try to sell you any drugs, or initiate you into some weird doomsday cult or anything?"  
I blink at Eren, and wonder how in the world he can come up with such strange scenarios. "Yes Eren, Jean has got me hooked on Meth now, and converted me to a religion where we worship giant space lizards, would you like to join us?"  
"Haha very funny mister sarcastic," Eren throws my own tone of voice right back at me, "sorry for genuinely being worried about the well being of my best friend."  
I sigh, feeling a little crappy for the way I acted. But I wasn't going to apologize for sticking up for Jean. "I get that Eren, but honestly there's nothing to be worried about. If anything, I'm more worried for Jean..." I trail off, and wonder if I should even bring this up to them before I have more concrete evidence.  
"Why is that?" Mikasa asks, finally joining the conversation.  
"Well," I start and look between Eren's intense eyes, to Mikasa's cool and calm ones; and I'm surprised by how interested they both look. "Now I'm not one hundred percent sure, and I may be wrong about this, but I think Marco's death affects Jean more then he lets on, or more than we can tell."  
"Okay, so? Why does it even matter, you barely know him." Eren levels me with a look, a look that clearly spells out that I should keep my nose where it belongs. It sucks that I'm going to have to disappoint him.  
I shake my head at Eren, and frown. "You don't get it... how would you feel if I unexpectedly died? Wouldn't you feel sad, and lost and want some one there for you to help pull you back together?" I look over to Mikasa, who is silently absorbing my words. At least with her, I can tell that she's taking what I'm saying to heart. "If that happened, at least you would still have Mikasa. I... I don't think Jean has any one now. Can you even imagine what that must feel like?"  
Eren is actually silent for once, and I can visibly tell that what I've said has upset him on some level. After a few moments he groans and whines, "Damn it! I hate it when you make sense..." He leans back in his plastic chair and crosses his arms over his chest as he pouts at me. "Still, if he doesn't want you nosing around in his business then you probably shouldn't."  
"I think Armin will be good for Jean," Mikasa chimes in, her dark gray eyes boring intensely into mine. "And I for one can't see any harm in him befriending Jean either. If things turn south, I can always beat the shit out of him." That was as close as I can get to a Mikasa stamp of approval. She smiles at me, just a barely there change in expression, but it means the world to me. Over the years I've learned that Mikasa's small, tender smiles are the most heartfelt.  
"Fine, do whatever you want Armin," Eren gripes, "just don't expect me to make that jerk flower crowns of friendship and invite him to sleep overs-- that's you and me stuff."  
I can't help but laugh at Eren as I suddenly realize the root of his dislike for Jean. He was jealous. Jealous and afraid that I might make a new friend and stop spending as much time with him. It's actually kind of sweet when I think about it. "Don't worry Eren, you'll always be my ace."  
That seems to cheer him up enough to start wolfing down his breakfast again. The rest of the morning passes with the three of us in deep conversation, planning out when we will have our next Game of Thrones get together. 

The rest of my day passes by quite uneventfully. My first class of the day is Calculus, followed by French 3, Cooking Class, and finally AP English. Cooking Class so far was the most interesting, because Sasha and Connie almost managed to burn down their kitchen area; and watching Mr. Zacharius scramble around to put it out (while slightly frightening) was kind of hilarious. The two of them were sent to Principal Smith, and I crossed my fingers and hoped they wouldn't be punished too severely for their mistake.  
By the time my last class rolls around, I am admittedly a little exhausted from all the course work on my plate right now. I have a heap of home work from Calc class, and Mr. Ackerman assigned another French translation project that I know is going to take me a few days to finish. Top it all off with having to finish reading Jean's book for our English project, and I can see a future full of a few all nighters for the rest of this month...  
When I take my seat, I turn immediately and look at Jean. He's sunk low into his chair, and his amber eyes seem flat and glazed over like he's zoned out. I can't help noticing how much paler he looks today, his skin almost a sickly ashen color. The dark circles under his eyes are practically black against his skin. I honestly feel incredibly concerned for Jean's health in that moment, and I wonder to myself if he's battling some kind of illness. It would explain the weight loss, and over all look of a dead man walking that he has going on now. I just hope that it isn't some thing too serious, like cancer. That would be a hard pill to swallow for me, even if I barely know him.  
Jean's eyes catch mine staring at him after a while, and he frowns. He doesn't hold my gaze long though, before he looks away. It confuses me a bit, since I thought we had hit it off so well yesterday. Oh well, I think, Rome wasn't built in a day, and I guess friendships can't be either.  
I turn back around, and settle myself in for another couple hours of school work, and the soothing sounds of Ms. Raal's calm voice.  
\-----------------------------  
Concentrating is easier said than done, and I learn that quite acutely during the remainder of English class. Jean's appearance and behavior weigh heavily on my thoughts the entire time, even when I don't want them to, so I can focus on taking notes. Like a magnetic field, however, my thoughts are constantly pulled back to the questions I have swirling around in the back of my mind concerning Jean.  
Why does he look so pale and sick all of the time? When did he start losing so much weight? Why did he hardly eat anything at my house yesterday, when he was clearly hungry? And why was his demeanor so shaky and timid all the time, when I remember him being loud, and brash only a few months ago? I know a lot of these things can be attributed to the death of Marco, but the transformation in Jean has happened so quickly in such a short amount of time, that it doesn't quite add up.  
My forefinger curls against my lips, a habit I know I've had for a long time when I find myself deep in thought. There are a few plausible explanations I can come up with. The first, is that Jean has an illness-- something severe, and new and a topic that maybe he doesn't want to bring up with me right now. The second, is that Marco's death is affecting him so deeply because either they were more than just friends, or Jean feels guilty about it for some reason (both of these options are classic indicators for the amount of stress his body must be under to change his appearance and personality so drastically in only a month). And third, and the option I am most afraid of thinking, is that Jean is quietly self destructing.  
It is easy to theorize, and guess at the cause-- but I will not know the source unless I actually ask Jean, and get him to become comfortable enough around me to open up. It's easy to tell from what small amount of interacting I've done with him, that he has walls upon walls erected around him to guard and protect his innermost self. I hope that I can be the gentle river that slowly carves its way through the stone encasing Jean Kirschtein's heart. Until that time comes, all I can do is what my grandfather told me; listen and wait for the right opportunity. 

When the bell finally rings, and I've put all of my things away in my bag, I stand and look behind me at Jean. I'm surprised to see him laid over his desk, fast asleep; his breathing slow and even, his eyes moving restlessly behind his paper thin eyelids. No one else seems to pay him much attention as they leave. I see Ms. Raal at the chalkboard, her back turned to us as she erases all the wide, looping notes she scribbled across it. All the noise and commotion still hasn't woken Jean up, and I have a feeling I would have to take it upon myself so he wouldn't have to be embarrassed over a teacher doing it.  
I hesitate to touch him at first, but after a few moments spent plucking up my courage, I rest my hand lightly over his shoulder and shake him a little to try and wake him. Jean groans, low and throaty, and burrows his face deeper into his arms. I frown and jostle him more insistently as I murmur, "Hey Jean! C'mon, wake up."  
"Damn it Marco... jus' five more minutes..." Jean's slurred words make me freeze over. Until he jerks violently awake. He breathes harshly, as if he's been attacked, and stares at me with wide, seemingly uncomprehending eyes. I pull my hand away when he angrily yanks down his hoodie sleeves. "'scuse me," he mumbles as he stands and goes to walk away. My hand shoots back out, and I grab for his wrist to stop him.  
Jean cries out as if I've burned him when my hand closes firmly around his wrist, and he turns on me with lightning in his eyes and thunder growling in his chest. "Let go of me Armin," he snarls, and I try not shiver in fear at the feral tone to his voice.  
"N-no, I won't. Not until you tell me what's wrong with you Jean. You're not looking so well and I'm afra--"  
"I think you should shut the hell up, and keep to your fucking self Arlert." He snaps over me. He stares daggers down at me, before he yanks himself forcefully from my grip. I look over to see Ms. Raal and the students that were left, stare at our exchange with dumbfounded expressions. Jean storms out of the room before I can get another word in edge wise, and I frown. His personality today was like a violent hurricane as opposed to the timid bluster of yesterday.  
I don't let myself stand around in a daze, instead I march my way to the bus and flop down in my seat with a purpose. My fingers fly over the touch screen of my phone as I load up a Google search. I have a hunch, a notion that makes my insides shake if I'm right. The signs were there though. Long sleeves. Secretive behavior. Aversion to people. Sudden shifts in mood. It was all so textbook, I sort of hate myself a bit for not realizing it sooner. All of those psychology studies, and books I read weren't for nothing, after all.  
And as I type in the search bar, "Signs to look for in self harmers," I desperately hope that my hunch isn't right. But if it is... I know I have a long road ahead of me, in helping Jean get through this. I was not going to let him destroy himself from the inside out, not if I could help it.


	4. Worn out places, worn out faces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every new day brings with it new problems to overcome. Jean is quickly becoming overwhelmed, and with the only person he could turn to now gone, he slowly starts to unravel at the seams. Lucky for him, Armin will be there for him when he least expected.

Chapter Four   
Worn out places, worn out faces 

"Shit, shit, SHIT," I can't stop that mantra from pounding through my thoughts with every erratic beat of my heart. I feel like a robber who has left a crime scene red handed, all the incriminating evidence strewn behind me like a breadcrumb trail of guilt. I was so obvious, so transparent in front of Armin. A bright kid like him is going to piece together the fucked up jigsaw of my brain sooner rather than later now. 

I'm running down the streets and as far away from the school as I can get, but my head is starting to spin and my heart is pounding too hard for it to be healthy. I have to stop to catch my breath as my vision swims a bit. My hands are shaking uncontrollably as I run them through the clammy, sweat drenched mop of my hair. When I finally look up to catch my bearings, I almost bark out an ironic laugh. Of course it would be Marco's empty home my subconscious pulled me to. 

I look around furtively, but the streets are dead so I have little to no chance of getting caught. 

The trellis is as easy to climb as it always was, and within moments I'm landing with a soft thwump in the Bodt's backyard. Everything looks just like I remember it, even the lawn chairs and the old wood picnic table are still here; like Marco's family never left. I walk over to the sliding glass door that leads to the kitchen, and press my face against the glass so I can have a better look at the inside of the house. It looks like most of the furniture was left behind, like Mr. and Mrs. Bodt couldn't afford the extra time to take it with them. No, they just wanted to get the hell out of dodge, and never look back. 

How can I blame them? 

The walls are devoid of all the family pictures, and paintings-- even the one I painted for Marco's thirteenth birthday is gone. Either they took it with them, or they trashed it, but I think I like the former idea. I pull away from the glass door, and circle around to the side of the house and look up at Marco's window. So many nights I remember crawling the trellis to throw bits of the garden rocks at that window, because I was falling apart and needed Marco to sew me back together. He always answered me with a patient smile, a finger pressed to his lips to tell me to be quiet and he would let me in through the back door. 

Those nights were always the particularly bad ones, the ones where I'd run to him and beg him to forgive me for the cuts and burns, for all the pills I had the temptation to swallow to put a more permanent end to my problems. Marco never got angry, no matter how late I'd wake him and keep him up through the night. He would run his hands through my hair, and read his favorite poems to me, his soft, gentle voice lulling me to sleep most times. 

I don't realize that I am crying until the tears fall through the seam of my lips and I taste salt on my tongue. Without thinking, I pick up a handful of the bleach white rocks around the Hydrangeas, and I start to throw them one by one at Marco's dark bedroom window. With each clink clink clink against the glass I whisper under my breath, "Please be there, please be there, please be there-- tell me it's all been a bad dream..." 

My hand eventually becomes empty of rocks, and Marco never comes. 

With a sob I fall to my knees beneath his window and I cry uncontrollably there until the sun sets, and my tears run so dry I feel like I might never be able to cry again. 

 

No one is there when I finally make myself go home. The trailer is dark, and it takes me a moment to find the light switch. Light flickers and cracks into existence after a few seconds and I make my way to the counter in the kitchen. I find one of my mom's hot pink sticky notes on my bag of off brand cereal and I pull it off with an angry frown as soon as I read it. 

"Got called into the bar to tend, won't be home until late tonight. I figure you're at Marco's since you're not home yet. Laundry day is tomorrow,   
love mom" 

I crumple the note and fling it across the living room with such an angry force I feel something pop in my shoulder. This wasn't the first time she's forgotten that Marco's dead, and I know it won't be the last as long as she keeps drinking the way she does and forgetting the most important things in my life. I thunder into my room and yank my desk drawer open and grab my lighter without even a fleeting tinge of guilt. 

The rage, and hurt, and sadness don't subside until I've burnt and cut them out of my skin at least a dozen times each. 

In the end though, the guilt does come and I throw my lighter across the room and it shatters against my wall. The smell of lighter fluid fills the air, and I choke on it along with my tears. I guess I was wrong, the tears never will stay dry for long. 

I beg Marco to forgive me until I fall into a rough and uneasy sleep. 

 

When I wake up my head is pounding and I feel like I'm going to throw up. I know it's a combination of dehydration, lack of nutrients, fatigue from blood loss and shock, and from crying so much. I make myself get up, my sore joints cracking into place from having fallen asleep in such a strange position, and I leave my room to get a couple tylenol and some water. 

The bright green numbers of the microwave clock read 3:23 a.m. and I realize that all the lights are still on as I left them. Which means my mother still hasn't come home. It doesn't surprise me, either she got roped into working over time, or she decided to stay and drink away most of the money she earned that night in tips.  
Water helps my headache more than I thought it would, and the groaning protest of my stomach makes me cave and get something to eat. I pour a bowl of cereal and eat it in my mom's recliner and turn the t.v. onto a rerun of one of my favorite cartoon shows I grew up with. 

It's like this that my mother finds me as she stumbles in through the door at 3:30 in the morning. 

"Oh..." she gasps when she finds me awake and eating cereal at such an odd hour. "I didn't think you'd be up Jeanbo." 

I shrug at her and say, "I got hungry, and couldn't get back to sleep." Good, I tell myself, it's good to play it off like a normal teenage boy. And it would have worked too, if I had remembered to put on a long sleeved shirt after I left my room. "Where were you?" I ask nonchalantly, but when my mother doesn't respond I look up to see her horrified, disappointed face. I'm confused for a moment, until I notice that her eyes are trained on the myriad of cuts and burns all across my arms. 

"Fuck," I curse under my breath. 

My question finally sinks into my mother's conscious and she pulls herself out of her stupor to respond, "I was uh, I was helping Liz clean up one of the kegs that got broken." She was lying, her mouth always twitched at the corners when she lied. "I thought you promised me you would never do that," she gestures hysterically at my arms, her voice shaking now, "you said you'd never hurt yourself again Jeanbo." 

I can't help the cold, flat tone of my voice as I reply, "It looks like we're both good at lying." 

 

Most of the night was filled with my mother sobbing and screaming at me about what it does to her when she has to see me do this to myself. I let her rage and scream at me, because I deserve every ounce of her anger. There's no point anyway in telling her that words like that are reasons why I do this to myself, because it's not about her. It's about the dark, fucked up parts of my head and the only way I know how to silence them. 

After yelling herself hoarse, my mother sweeps through my room and makes me give her any sharp objects, and my broken lighter. Even my box cutter is surrendered under the threat of ripping my room apart later and finding what I have hidden any way. The rest of the night I lie staring numbly up at my shadowed ceiling, and watch how cold silver light is painted over by burning orange. 

I hear my mother's sobs through the wall, and each broken inhale makes me wish I hadn't fucked up so badly. By morning my wrists are tattooed deep blue and purple like a midnight sky. 

When I finally leave my room that Saturday morning, the trailer is quiet and I realize that my mom isn't home. There's no bright pink sticky note waiting for me, so I figure she's probably out running errands or at the bar to drink off what happened last night. I look around the kitchen, instinctively knowing that all the Kitchen Knives and scissors would be removed. Just like last time my mom found out. Back then she sent me to a therapist for a few months until she could no longer afford it. 

Luckily for me though, shoveling snow in the dead of winter here in Trost can earn a kid quite the pretty penny and my sock drawer is littered with crumpled ones, and loose change. I go back to my room and scoop up as much money as I can find, even going so far as to combing through the house for any spare coins lying around. My efforts reward me with the scraped together remnants of about ten dollars, and I stuff it all in my jean pockets before getting my keys and leaving. 

The slap of my sneakers on the pavement is almost painfully loud as they measure out each of my determined steps with staccato purpose. I have my hands safe guarded in the warmth of my hoodie pockets, but the crisp air slices across my face and within minutes the tips of my ears and nose are numb from the cold. 

I walk on auto pilot, along the familiar twists and turns through the suburban streets of my neighborhood. There's a shabby, family owned gas station/convenience store a few blocks from the trailer park. Many a summer afternoon was spent with me piggy backing a ride on Marco's sports bike to get ice cream or energy drinks for our legendary sleep overs. My mission this time is far less innocent, and a bubble of shame rises up to my chest for a brief moment when I realize how truly lost and pathetic I am without my tools of self destruction. 

The pavement gives way to craggy, broken asphalt as I turn into the parking lot. I almost collide into some dumb kid carrying a soda almost too big for his small hands to handle, and I shoot a glare at the inattentive mother who is yammering away to some one on her cell phone. The lady doesn't see me, so I just continue on. I can't help the envy that swells in me when I see children being treated with things like soda or candy simply by going to the gas station with their parents. Never having a car while growing up denied me of such a simple, normal childhood privilege. 

Chiming bells prelude my entrance to the convenience portion of the store, so I slouch my way past the bored looking cashier to nose around before building up my courage to go up to the counter and ask for a lighter. The back of the store is freezing, where all the cold drinks are kept, and I try to shake off the creeping chill as I open one of the doors so I can grab a Monster energy drink. The can almost stings my fingers it's so cold, so I shift it to the crook of my arm. 

I hear the door chime at the entrance as I snatch up a bag of sour candies and I look up out of curious habit to see who might be coming into this shabby ass store on a Saturday morning like me. My snacks almost fall out of my arms from shock as I see Armin walk in. His hair is pulled away from his face into a messy bun, and he's wearing the dorkiest pair of glasses I've ever seen; they kind of look like they're hand me down frames from his grandpa, and I try to stifle a smirk. 

He doesn't notice me, and he heads over to the part of the store that sells fast and easy lunch foods. A small, and desperately lonely, part of myself is dying to go over and start up a conversation with him. Probably apologize for the way I treated him yesterday after school. After spending all night awake with my thoughts, this morning I can't help but feel like shit for the things I said to him. He's only a nice guy, doing his best to be friendly to my ungrateful ass after all... 

But I stay frozen in place, the cuts and burns under my sleeves reminding me that I don't need to get that deeply involved with some one ever again. I take my snacks up to the front register, and push them nervously toward the cashier; who only glances over me with a bored, dead eyed stare. 

"Um... can I also get a lighter?" My heart is pounding, and I know it's stupid that I'm getting so worked up. There's no possible reason that this stranger can know why I need one, but it doesn't stop me from imagining a giant red sign that hovers over my head and screams "Self Harmer!" 

The cashier nods, doesn't even really look me over again or ask for ID as he shuffles around the back counter and adds a purple lighter to my pile. "That'll be $8.57." And that's all it takes. I pull out my money and count it out before handing it over with a small, shaky smile. "Have a nice day," the guy drawls, the glaze already returning to his eyes as they slide over me. 

"Yeah, um you too..." I reply, though I'm sure it's pointless since the guy has most likely already tuned me out. 

As I grab up my stuff I hear a very familiar voice behind me, "Jean?" 

I know it's Armin, so I shove the lighter into my hoodie pocket as fast as I can and pray that he didn't see it, before I turn around and give him a hesitant smile. "Oh, uh hey Armin." 

His answering smile doesn't hold the tightness, or formality I was expecting after the events of yesterday, instead it is easy and warm, and (against my better judgement) I feel myself softening. Armin's eyes dart down toward my snacks, before he looks back up at me, "Sooooo, have any fun plans for this weekend?"

I shrug noncomitally, and shift my snacks as I reply, "Nah, not really." 

Armin gives a quick smile to the cashier as he places his haul on the counter, before his attention is on me again. "Hm, sounds like a fun time." His tone is light, and teasing, but not in the kind of mocking or condescending way I've become so used to over the years from other people regarding my sever lack of social life. "I'm having one of my Library days, so now I'm taking a break to have lunch in the park nearby," Armin continues without preamble, filling up the silence with idle chatter. 

"Yeah?" I replied reluctantly, half wanting to keep the conversation going between us because I felt like an ass for being a dick to him the other day, and half wanting Armin to just go away and leave me in relative peace. "That uh... sounds cool." 

The cashier hands over Armin's change and goes back to staring vacantly at the wall of snacks behind us as he drones, "Have a nice day," again. 

"Hey, um Jean," Armin pipes up as I'm turning to leave, even if our conversation didn't exactly have an end point to it. I look at him over my shoulder, and sigh, but nod at him to just spit out whatever it was he felt like he needed to say. "I was wondering... would you like to join me in the park? Unless you're busy or something, then that's okay. But I, well I think it would be nice to have the company." 

Armin looks up at me with his big, hopeful blue eyes and I can't help but crack under their kind intensity. Damn little punk really knew how to play the 'innocent' card... 

"I mean... I dunno. Do you really want to spend your saturday afternoon with a boring loser like me?" 

Without even missing a beat Armin replies (with a heavy sincerity to his tone that almost borders on frightening), "Yeah, I wouldn't have asked if I didn't want to spend time with you Jean." 

Those words take me aback, and I find myself paused in mute suspension. In that moment I feel something inside me splinter, because I hear a bit of Marco in Armin, and it kills me. 

My inner pain and turmoil is probably reflected in the way my brow pinches together, or how my jaw tenses as I try to push down the swell of tears in my eyes, because Armin looks at me suddenly concerned. "Hey, are you alright? If I said anything to upset you, I'm sorry--" 

I cut Armin's cushion soft voice off with an abrupt shake of my head. I don't need him blaming himself for my inability to not think of Marco at the most inconvenient moments. "No." My voice comes out rougher than I intend it to, so I clear it a bit and take a deep breath before I make myself continue, "Sorry... I was just..." Just what? I don't know why I suddenly feel so compelled to give him an honest answer, but that's exactly what was about to come out of me. 

Maybe it's the way Armin looks at me. Eyes earnest, no shadow of an ulterior motive behind them. So, so much like Marco's used to be. 

I crumble like the walls of Jericho. 

"I dunno. I just randomly started thinking of... Marco." 

For all it's worth, I can tell Armin is trying not to pity me. He puts on an understanding, patient smile and says, "C'mon," he gestures for me to follow him and I don't have it in me to argue, "picnics in the park, and playing on swings are perfect remedies for moments like these." 

I don't have the heart to tell him that such childish antics would hardly do anything to bring me out of one of my black moods once they've set in. Instead I can only muster the energy to nod, and let myself be led by Armin back out onto the cold, frosty streets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys. 
> 
> As I think I remember mentioning in last chapter's ending note, I was going to be moving out of the State I had previously lived in (California). Six months have passed, and I've been starting my life here in Arizona. I got a job at a Hawaiin grill (which I hate, and am looking for some thing better), and I've mostly been working on art, writing here and there, and spending time with my room mate sight seeing, apartment hunting, and binge watching television shows and Anime. 
> 
> Being far away from my family, and the stress from work, plus lots of other things has had me depressed, but between those moments, I've been a lot happier than I have been in a while. So getting into the headspace to write this has become more difficult for me, then at the beginning. I apologize for the horrible update times for this fic, but I promise you I will see it through to the end. Thank you guys for waiting, and I hope you liked this newest chapter.

**Author's Note:**

> This first chapter is in Armin's perspective, but the second one will be in Jean's. I think I will go back and forth every other chapter between their two perspectives since this is not just a story about saving or being saved. It's a little of both.


End file.
